


a definitive proof

by sir_not_appearing_in_this_archive



Series: the nature of causality [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: M/M, minor injuries and bleeding, unecessary amounts of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 10:17:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3847189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sir_not_appearing_in_this_archive/pseuds/sir_not_appearing_in_this_archive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only thing that hurts worse than Foggy leaving in anger is Foggy leaving because he accidentally confessed his feelings for Matt and panicked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a definitive proof

**Author's Note:**

> A continuation of [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3834757) story. A little less fluffy because my favorite Matt Murdock is a suffering Matt Murdock

One of the first things he learns is that people are liars. Falseness is written in human DNA, a defense mechanism born from the need to protect individuals from being completely known by anyone. It’s part of them, of everyone, and he supposes that’s why the Ten Commandments only forbid one type—thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. A very specific kind of lie, the most damaging kind, because even God would have trouble tallying them all.

White lies are the backbone of polite society, and Matt develops a certain sort of callus for them after a while. And he knows people lie about ridiculous things, inconsequential things, and they slide right off him. If he’s being honest with himself, he only ever really cares if someone’s still lying after he’s broken their nose, or if someone he cares about lies because they’re hiding pain.

Though he holds himself apart from the rest of the world in some respects, Matt’s not an exception. When he’s in public, every motion of his body is a lie. His cane, his hands as they grope for objects he could point out from across a room, the way he lets people lead him around an unfamiliar space. All lies. He feels guilty even though they’re born of necessity, so putting on his mask is like finally relaxing. He could probably delight a dozen psychologists with the fact he’s more himself in a vigilante costume than any other time—except when he’s with Foggy.

Foggy, the only consistently good thing in his adult life, a ray of metaphorical sunshine in his otherwise pitch-black world. The day Foggy learned about his abilities ranked as one of the worst in Matt’s experience, and when he walked out the door Matt was certain their friendship would never recover. He sat on his couch, letting the waves of pain from his injuries wash over him because he deserved it. He deserved the way his insides twisted and his stomach roiled, full of acid. He deserved the tears that burned his eyes because he could have told Foggy a hundred times but he didn’t. With Foggy, Matt wasn’t just lying, he was _living_ a lie, and he felt it acutely every time Foggy described the nonverbal communication around him or offered his elbow for guidance. But he let it continue, and it almost destroyed them.

Now Matt stands on the sidewalk in front of his apartment and he can’t catch his breath. Foggy’s gone, and this time anger hasn’t driven him away, but fear. Matt’s used to inspiring fear when he wears his mask, and it’s useful in his enemies. But he never wanted to hear it in Foggy’s voice, in his wild heartbeat, never wanted to smell the beads of cold sweat on his brow. The fact that Foggy is terrified of him—of his reaction to the revelation that Foggy felt something other than platonic friendship towards him—is a special sort of agony. If anything else in the world was upsetting Foggy, he could try to fix the problem, or at least punch enough people that it would go away. But Matt himself is the problem, and as much as he has earned walking right into a brick wall or some other form of self-flagellation, he’s already hurt pretty badly and he doesn’t want to end up in a hospital answering awkward questions.

People pass by him, unconsciously giving him a wider berth than necessary because of the trappings of blindness he carries. Mostly they don’t see him, not really, they just _avoid_ him. He clears his mind as best he can and focuses, listening for the sound of Foggy’s gait, which Matt could recognize anywhere, no matter how crowded the space. A minute passes and he finally accepts what he’s been trying to disprove—Foggy’s really gone, in a cab or just too far away by the time he made it to the street. Matt knows he should have gone after him immediately, stopped him in the hallway or on the stairs and—and—

And what? Ask him how the hell he kept this from Matt all these years? Ask him how he, Foggy Nelson, the worst liar in the universe, managed to pull one over on a man who’s a human polygraph? Because for all the edge his abilities give him, he’s taken it for granted that he’s the only person in a room who can lie and get away with it. And then Foggy blindsides him—hah!—by lying to Karen about his feelings for Matt in front of him, and he might as well have professed it right out because Matt can feel Foggy’s face heat up, hear his heart jump and even without his heightened senses he recognizes the lie in his best friend’s voice. Lying by omission is one of Matt’s talents, but he’s been upstaged on an impressive scale.

As he sets off towards a likely destination for his errant business partner, Matt wonders just how long Foggy’s felt this way. He remembers the first time they met, remembers the increased pulse and flushing that meant Foggy felt at least vaguely attracted to him—but that wasn’t unusual. Most people found Matt attractive, it was one of the better ironies of his existence, that he didn’t see well (i.e., at all) but looked great. And Foggy had been sincere about picking up girls, so he didn’t think of it again. Not really. There were times when Matt couldn’t quite make sense of his friend’s reactions, but mostly he was just _Foggy_ , kind, funny, sincere Foggy Nelson, whose brilliant mind would have been wasted in a butcher’s shop, whose friendship made Matt Murdock finally understand the meaning of being blessed.

His apartment is empty, Matt can tell without even entering Foggy’s building, and it’s too early for the bar to be open, so Matt loiters, trying to think of another place Foggy would seek refuge or hide from him. Nothing springs to mind, and Matt almost calls him. But he needs to have this conversation in person. Foggy will just hang up on him, or ignore the call entirely.

So he walks without a destination in mind, letting his senses guide him while his mind turns the problem over and over. No matter from what angle he examines it, though, he still can’t decide what he’ll say when he eventually catches up to his friend. He keeps coming to the same thing— _How? How did you hide it from me?_ —but he can’t lead with indignant disbelief. All the scenarios he runs in his head end with everything crashing and burning around him, but maybe he’s just become something of a pessimist since this whole vigilante thing started.

Rustling leaves distract him, snap him out of his reverie. The warm summer breeze picks up and tugs at his hair, at the edges of his loose t-shirt. The murmur of leaves turns into a roar like a waterfall and he can feel sunlight shift over him, dappling him with hot and cold patches. His feet have carried him to a familiar place. The street isn’t deserted, but only a few other souls walk by, past the church that rises out of a freshly cut lawn. Nothing about this place is different from the rest of the city. Cars rumble by reeking of exhaust and the grass smells of fertilizer and herbicides. A woman a dozen yards away tugs at the leash of a little dog while talking on the phone to her daughter. In the tree above them a songbird takes flight, winging into what Matt knows must be at least a partially clear sky.

The physical aspects of this location aren’t special, but he feels a quiet calm steal over him anyway, the beginning of peace. Matt sits on a bench and buries his face in his hands, not minding the way the frames of his glasses dig into his skin. The bruise on his cheek twinges in pain but he disregards that, too, and concentrates on breathing for a moment. Foggy is gone, and he feels a sense of urgency, of time running out, and he needs to be out there searching. But right along with the drive for action is a paralyzing fear that’s he’s already too late, that things are going to be awkward between them forever, and he can’t cope with the thought of a world without Foggy Nelson by his side.

When Father Lantom approaches him, Matt doesn’t bother to feign surprise.

“Having a bad morning?” the priest sits on the other half of the bench.

“You could say that.” Chagrin tugs the corners of his mouth into a bitter smile, and the cut on his lower lip cracks open again. Absentmindedly he licks the drop of blood away.

“It’s the middle of the morning on a Tuesday,” Lantom continues, “Thought you’d be at the office by now.”

“Something—uh—came up. A personal matter.”

“One that requires sitting around on this particular bench?”

“I’m—” _looking for someone_ , he almost finishes, but that’s a lie, and he might as well tell the truth. He’s not actually searching for Foggy, not anymore. “I needed to clear my head. Figure things out.”

“Nice day for it.” He tilts his head up and faces the sky. What he sees must be pleasant, because Lantom lets out a small, content sigh.

Matt swallows, tries to speak but doesn’t know what to say, starts to bite his lip until a stab of pain and the taste of blood reminds him of the cut there. It’s like something is lodged in his throat just shy of choking him.

“Do—” Matt manages at last, “Do benches count as sealed confessions?” He’s only half-joking when he says it.

“Of course. But we can talk somewhere more private, if you want.”

“No, this is alright. It’s not—” he pauses. No one is close enough to overhear them. “It’s not about what we usually discuss. It’s—” Matt knows lots of words, in more than one language. He has the sophisticated vocabulary of someone with a law degree and a fondness for reading, yet every word, every phrase, has abandoned him. He can think of no way to convey the storm raging inside him, no way to describe the ache in his chest.

“Personal?” Father Lantom suggests, a hint of a smile in his voice. “You don’t have to share anything with me if you don’t want to, but I’m here to listen, and to give what advice I can.”

“I just found out my best friend’s in love with me.” Matt can’t stop the words bubbling out of his throat. “Has been, for a while—maybe, I don’t know. I had no idea, and I—” He pauses, takes a deep breath, and when he speaks again his words are slow, measured. “I didn’t react as well as I could have. I didn’t really react at all, I just froze, and—”

Matt considers his words carefully, then decides if Father Lantom were going to turn his back on him, he would have when he was planning murder. “—and he left. I tried to catch up to him but—but here I am.”

“I read about you in the papers, you know.” The priest’s non sequitur throws Matt for a moment. “You don’t strike me as the type to lose track of someone easily.”

“Well, no, and I’ll find him eventually—”

“But only after your heart is settled?”

“It’s not my heart I’m worried about, it’s his. I don’t know how to tell him that I’m—that he doesn’t have to feel awkward.”

“If you don’t return his feelings, tell him. Things won’t go back to the way they were, but all friendships evolve over time.” Lantom shrugged. “If you care about each other, you’ll make it work.”

“I—” the lump in his throat trips him up. He drags a hand over his mouth, over his scruffy five o’clock shadow. “Shouldn’t you be telling me how sinful this is, or something?”

Lantom laughs. “Is that what you hoped, that I’d tell you he’s going to hell?” His voice becomes serious. “I don’t serve a God that would give humanity such a profound capacity for love and then punish people for loving each other, no matter who they are. That’s my personal stance on the matter.”

“That’s very enlightened of you.”

“And you’re changing the subject.”

A thought springs into his mind, reveals itself at last. He realizes that it’s been hovering on the edge of his consciousness since the moment Foggy lied.

“I’ve never been in love,” he admits, voice low, almost too quiet. “How do you know if you are?”

Lantom snorts another laugh. “If I knew a straight answer for that I’d be a millionaire. Sometimes I think we invented languages just to have a way to argue about it. All the poets of history haven’t found a solution to your problem.” The priest stands up. “That’s because only you can figure it out. My humble suggestion would be to find this friend of yours and tell him what you’ve told me. It’ll be a start.”

The wind rushes through the leaves again and Matt knows where Foggy is. In his haste to leave he almost forgets his cane, but no one notices.

The offices of Nelson and Murdock aren’t empty when he arrives. Karen is absent, though, probably still freaking out about various things in his own apartment, and he doesn’t mind that she’s away. Foggy is less likely to climb out the fire escape to avoid this conversation if they are alone.

He eases open the main door, hoping not to startle his friend into another panic. But Foggy ignores him, continuing to sit in his office, pretending to work. Matt raps the door, then opens it without waiting for an answer. Foggy knows he’s here. That or he’s having a heart attack.

“You’re a little underdressed, don’t you think?” Foggy asks, brittle professionalism lacing his words.

“We don’t have any clients right now—”

“And we won’t get any if you lounge around in a t-shirt and sweatpants.”

“I’ll change after we talk.” Matt rests his cane against the wall and closes the door behind him before removing his glasses. He doesn’t want anything between them.

Foggy stands up and grabs a stack of papers off his desk. Matt can’t be sure, but he imagines they’re random and irrelevant. His friend turns his back and starts to shove pieces of paper into what are probably the wrong files. “If it’s not work related, it can wait. This is a place of business.”

“Foggy,” he sighs, moving around the desk to stand beside his friend. He smells like aftershave and fabric softener and the remnants of fear from their last conversation. “Please, stop doing that and look at me.”

His hands slow, then still, and he turns. “Can we just forget about this—?” He’s desperate, terrified.

“I don’t want to forget.” Slowly, Matt reaches out and takes Foggy’s wrist, guiding his hand to place it on the thin fabric of his t-shirt, over his heart. “Do you feel it?”

“Y-your heartbeat? Yeah—”

“Now we’re on even footing. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Foggy’s laugh is bitter. “Right, just tell my super hot best friend that I’ve had a secret crush on him for years—”

“Years?” Matt breathes. “That long? I didn’t—I didn’t know.”

“I was in denial for a pretty good part of that, and I didn’t want to ruin things. Figured it was never gonna happen, so I tried to move on.” His heart is racing but not from being dishonest. “You can, uh, let go of my hand now.”

“Not yet. I’m not done.” Matt inhales, trying to summon the right words. What escapes him is, “I was lying before, when Karen asked if I had feelings for you.”

“Matt, don’t—”

“I’m telling the truth.” He presses Foggy’s hand against his chest a little harder. “I’m not good at this. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I know I want you in my life, that you mean more to me than anyone else. When you’re around, you make everything better.”

At last he lets go of Foggy’s wrist, but the other man doesn’t take his hand away. Matt reaches up and touches the side of his friend’s face, smiling as he hears Foggy’s breath hitch. Without thinking or second-guessing himself, Matt closes the space between them, pressing a light kiss against Foggy’s lips. Foggy lets his hand drop, moving it to rest on Matt’s waist as he returns the kiss. His mouth is soft and tastes like the syrup he had with his pancakes that morning.

When their kiss breaks Foggy’s pulse finally slows down to the range of normal, and he says, like he’s been waiting for a hundred years, “I love you.”

“I know.” Matt grins and feels giddy, almost light-headed.

“Dude, you’re bleeding—” Foggy makes as if to touch Matt’s lip but hesitates. “You better not drip on the carpet. And, great, you popped some stitches on your side. Blood’s showing. Did you back-flip all the way here?”

“No,” Matt laughs, resting his forehead on Foggy’s shoulder and delighting in how right this feels, even if he’s covered in bruises. “I don’t care about the stitches.”

“That’s cause you won’t be the one cleaning blood off the floors. You’re bad for business, Mr. Murdock.”

“Good thing I have you around to pick up my slack, Mr. Nelson.”

People are liars, and no one can ever know all of another person’s secrets. But with Foggy, Matt thinks, he comes damn close.


End file.
